


The Road Begins

by evil_whimsey, PandoraCulpa



Series: The Adventures of Arai and Roy [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis, xxxHoLic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Great Depression, Intolerance, Lots of Hurt, Multiverse crossover, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poverty, Too little comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraCulpa/pseuds/PandoraCulpa
Summary: Everyone's story starts somewhere.  These are the prequels to the Adventures of Arai and Roy, providing a backdrop to characters who may not resemble their canon counterparts as closely as one might think.  Not necessary reading for the Adventures, but a good supplement nonetheless.
Series: The Adventures of Arai and Roy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1607860
Kudos: 1
Collections: wtf_hollow presents: Adventures





	1. Roy

He didn't know a lot of things. Most were beyond his simple understanding and he didn't feel their lack, but every once in a while he'd find himself wishing he could follow conversation around him, or understand the nuances of situations he found himself in. He tried, but he was easily distracted by sounds or quick motions, and once he'd lost his focus, there was no catching up. Mostly, what he knew was as simple as he was- things like cold, hunger. And fear- he was very familiar with that.

He knew he didn't belong. Even if he forgot, the men he shared the bunkhouse with were sure to remind him with regularity. Harsh looks, harder words, and the occasional painful knock kept him from forgetting that, to them, he was an outsider. Beyond the backbreaking work of picking tobacco leaves he was shunned, left out of their coarse camaraderie and ignored at mealtime, when they all sat at long trestle tables and ate the scant fare the boss provided. No one wanted to associate with him.

But it was easy to forget the ostracism, when they were working together in the field, long lines of men stooping in the rows and filling the baskets slung on their backs. His hands might be too clumsy to hold a fork, or to tie a bandanna across his face to block out the tobacco smell that always made his nose twitch, but they were sturdy and even without callouses they could pull basketfuls of tobacco all day long without cramping. Then, he could pretend, within the silence and the heat, that he belonged in this place.

The illusion never lasted.

He was different, and he knew it, but he didn't really have the ability to regret his lack of understanding. Occasionally something would strike him funny, and he could almost be certain that, in his before-life, he did know things, just like everyone else. But thoughts like this were abstract and difficult, hard to hold; they slipped away just like all the other things he lost every day, and he would soon forgot the strange notion entirely.

The one thing he held tight to though, was his name. It was hard to remember it, when there was no one around who used it but himself, and he repeated it like a prayer in his mind while he worked in the field, sweating and laboring alongside the men who didn't like him. He spoke it silently when he went to sleep at night, impressing it into his brain because he couldn't afford to let it disappear. Once he'd had a last name too, but it was gone now, lost to recall. Sometimes, when he woke in the middle of the night, despite all his repetitions he couldn't remember his first name either, and he would lie on his thin pallet and whimper deep in his throat until it came back, slowly, like a bubble rising from the bottom of a lake.

But he worked hard, and never complained, and was grateful in his simple way for the two meals the boss gave them, for his hard, scratchy pallet and the tin roof over the bunkhouse. He was even grateful for the men who were so cold to him, because it gave him the impression, however flimsy and false, that he wasn't really alone.

He noticed that, on certain days, those other men would line up and the boss would give them little pieces of paper. He'd stood in the line once, but the boss had laughed at him when he finally reached him. “Go back to yer bunk,” the man had growled, and he'd left, obedient and confused, and never tried again. After, the men would always go into town, staying there until it was well past dark. When they returned they'd be noisy and cruel, and smelled like grain gone sour. They frightened him a little those days, and he would hunker down on his pallet in the corner, and pretend to sleep while they laughed and roared with unpleasant glee. Usually, they left him alone.

One night, however, one of the men toed him in the ribs, leaning over him with a toothy leer. “Haintcha 'wake, son?” the man rumbled, and he didn't understand, but opened his eyes nonetheless. At that, the man barked a laugh.

“Tol' ya he weren't asleep!” he bellowed to the others, before turning back with crafty pleasure in his eyes. “Now son,” he said, in a voice pretending to be gentle, but he could hear the lie. “Oughtn't ye be celebratin' with the rest o' us? Harvest almost over, innit? C'mon, have a sit wi' your ol' friends!”

The other men chuckled darkly; he could sense the atmosphere turning ugly though he didn't know why. Still, he did as he was told and rose from the pallet, joining the others in the rough circle they sat in on mismatched chairs and the edges of rickety beds. A thrum of hope pulsed in his veins, overriding his instinct's rejection of the offer, for he'd never been included before and hadn't realized how much he'd wanted to be until now. Two of the larger laborers shifted to make space between them on a bed, and he sat there gingerly.

“'Ere then,” one of them said, pressing a flask into his hand. “Have a nip, yeah?”

All eyes were upon him, dark with cruel humor, and he suddenly wanted nothing but the open, tobacco-perfumed air of the fields. But there was no escaping the place he'd found himself in and, with only a faint curl of his lip at the harsh grainy smell, he drank.

It _burned_ , and he coughed uncontrollably, nearly dropping the flask still held in his clumsy hand, and amid the coarse laughter that roared around him a hard hand cuffed his ear. “Don' spill it!” a voice hissed.

“Tol' ya it'd be a right good show,” the man who'd brought him over announced to the others, before looking back at him, yellowing teeth showing in an unkind grin. “S'good, yeah?” The other men laughed again and the ringleader waved one hand in an unsteady gesture at the flask. “Gi'im some more, Eli.”

“No,” he rasped, eyes still watering from the fumes and his throat raw. “Don't want...”

“Oh, it talks!” the man crowed with delight. “”Lookee there, ain't that a treat?” Abruptly his face dropped into serious lines again, and he made another curt motion. “Gi'im more.”

“No!” he cried again, but there were hands upon him, holding him in place while others pried his jaws apart. The mouth of the flask clacked painfully against his teeth as it was forced between them, and then he was drowning in fire, terrified and helpless.

When they finally released him he scrabbled backwards, desperate to escape, while the men around him howled with mirth. He fell hard from the bed onto his rump, the room spinning and his stomach leaping and quivering from the corn whiskey assault. He tried to stand but his balance was wrong; his body seemed to have developed its own gravity, and he crashed back to the floor in a heap. Mocking laughter ricocheted around his head from no one direction, and panic lit every nerve.

Somehow he managed to get his feet under him, leaning against a wall and panting with fear. He didn't understand what they had done to him, or why, only that he felt sick and disoriented and that the men in the bunkhouse had caused it. Shivering with vulnerability and dearly wanting to retreat from the unsettling scene until he could think again, he tried to stumble to the door only to find his path blocked by the man who'd started it all.

“Now where ya goin', son? Things is just getting fun now. Y'ain't gonner leave yer ol' pals, are ya? Still more in the bottle here...” The flask swung into his view, and the man leaned forward, wicked grin in place and an arm reaching out for his head again.

He didn't think. Instinct sprang to life, born out of terror of that foul drink, and he lunged at the hand opening to grasp his hair, caught it in his teeth. Felt the sharp crack of bone beneath his canines and registered the man's anguished howl as he pushed him away with his own clumsy, strong hands. His tormentor fell to the ground, cradling his hand and rocking side to side, and when one of the other men in the bunkhouse took a hesitant step forward, he bared his teeth and rumbled a warning.

They paused, dividing their attention between him and the man on the ground, who was examining his hand with horrified fascination. “He bit me,” the man breathed into the silence. “Th' sonofabitch _bit_ me!”

“Like a goddamn dog,” another man agreed, pointing at him. “Did you see them teeth?”

He couldn't process this. His head was still muddled, his entire body felt unfamiliar and awkward, and all he wanted was to get outside, away from the men who were frightening him. He took a shuffled, tenuous step toward the door, but the room tilted again and he moaned aloud, falling back into the wall and blinking dumbly.

The injured man tried flexing his hand, cursing when broken bones scraped and more blood rose. Another one of their bunkmates offered his hand, helping him up, and once he was steady the look the instigator shot him was pure hatred. “Y'dumb shit,” the man growled, advancing slowly upon him. “What'n hell d'ya do that for?”

He cowered before the adversarial tone. “Said no,” he offered in a fearful whimper, hands flat against the wall to keep him propped up. A soft whine welled in his throat, and with an apologetic, pleading gaze he added, “Sorry, sorry.” He hadn't meant to hurt anyone; he wanted to be their friend, for them not to be angry and hateful and remind him how different he was...

The blow to his chin drove his head hard into the wall; fireworks exploded in his brain and vision while his legs went nerveless, spilling him to the ground in a heap. His ears were ringing and his entire head throbbed, and through blurred vision he could just make out the man he'd bitten standing over him, uninjured hand still balled in a fist. Yellowed teeth grinned, but it was a horrible, furious expression, and sent tremors of fresh fear through him.

“Fuckin' animal,” the man said, breathing heavily. “Stinkin' piece o'shit...”

“Sorry!” he wailed, throwing one arm out as the man raised his hand again, terror turning his limbs to water and his mind to concrete. At his tormentor's back, an undercurrent of danger was swelling like the tide, suffocating in the narrow bunkhouse.

“Tear your freak eyes right outa your _head_!” the man screamed, and in a blind panic he rallied his disobedient body into a frenzy of motion...

They were on him before he made it to his knees.

~*~

Another thing he knew, was pain.

He was quite familiar with the sensation, having experienced a great deal of it in his life so far, but it had never been like this before. One arm had been so cruelly wrenched that moving it nearly caused him to black out in agony, and there was not a single part of his body remaining that didn't throb and sting in time with his pulse. Every breath ached to draw, his bruised ribs protesting the motion, and even his bare feet were scraped raw from stumbling through the woods and later, through unswept city streets and alleyways.

Both of his eyes had swollen close to shut, leaving him all but blind but his nose and ears were still sharper than they had any right being, and he used them to guide his way into the haven he'd chosen. The alley reeked of garbage and stagnant water, but there was no hint of human smell to indicate it was frequented by bums or worse. People meant pain and beatings, and he was helpless to protect himself in this state.

He couldn't ever recall being so frightened before, the terror from the attack still fresh in his mind. Anger he was used to, but the mindless mob violence that had turned on him was baffling. Even now, he couldn't comprehend why the men he'd worked with had attacked him with such murderous intent, and for once not knowing made him feel scared and cold. Who was to say that someone else wouldn't do the same, for another offense he couldn't foresee? A small, pitiful noise shook loose from him throat, and he stifled it quickly, for fear that someone might hear and investigate.

He hadn't fought back, while they pounded and kicked him. Biting the first man had instigated the rage, so far as he could tell, and he had been afraid of inciting them further. But that hadn't stopped him from struggling wildly to escape, for the freedom promised by the bunkhouse door, and eventually the noise of the melee had brought the boss down from his big house. The distraction had allowed him to break away, adrenaline pushing his broken body away from the men who seemed bent on his death and out into the night. It had carried him this far, but his strength was just about at its end.

Near the back of the alley, hidden half-behind an old, rusted dumpster, there was a pile of rags. They were fetid-smelling and damp, but still better than the hard cobblestones. Sinking painfully to the ground, he wedged himself back into the space as carefully as he was able, crying out more than once as he jostled his arm or struck some other damaged part of his body. Once he was as safely ensconced as he could make himself, he curled into a ball on the rags and let go of some his anxious vigilance. If someone wanted to hurt him there was little he could do to stop them, but at least his back was no longer exposed.

The rags were a poor substitute for the pallet he'd abandoned at the bunkhouse, but he was pitifully thankful for them as he closed his eyes. The pain wouldn't allow him to sleep, any more than his anxiety would, but even this minimal security was better than nothing. Fighting back the miserable sorrow of abandonment, he let his mind drift away as he lay suffering, holding tight to his name and pretending that someone else knew it too.

~*~

He didn't move for two days. The morning after the attack found him in far more agony than the night before, as bruises swelled and shock wore off. There was nothing he could do but pant, short little jagged breaths that he couldn't hold in, eyes watering from the scream along his battered ribs with every inhalation. His shoulder was hugely swollen, the arm immovable, and a myriad of other pains had made themselves known. Every footprint on his back, every place a fist had landed, the long gash up his side from the exposed nail head he'd fallen into- every injury was picked out in flame upon his body, a map of betrayal and hatred.

He closed his eyes, kept forcing his lung to fill, while tears darkened his lashes.

On the second day he was delirious. Unable to move from his spot behind the dumpster, insensible with pain, he didn't even flinch when a chilly morning rain pelted down upon him in a brief cloudburst. It was simply another discomfort in an existence currently filled with torment, and he turned bruised, blind eyes to the sky and let the rain strike him without complaint. Worn down from pain and exhaustion, he finally lost consciousness that afternoon, lying as though dead to well into the next day. When he eventually awoke the pain from his injuries had subsided somewhat, but the damp and his weakened state had left him feverish, and consumed by new miseries.

By the third day, he was certain he was going to die.

He accepted this fate with a dull, animal resignation, knowing his state and instinctively recognizing his inability to help himself. He was damaged and ill, hadn't eaten in days. His mind had begun wandering erratically, and sometimes he forgot where he was, or why. Only his name remained, and he clung to that with childish tenacity even when he couldn't remember why it was important. If he could only hold onto that, death wouldn't be so scary. If he had his name...

The morning of the fourth day, he woke to a voice.

Panic electrified him, rallying his weakened body to fight upright. Fresh pain tore through his limbs, his head, as he held his hands before him and growled out a pitiful display of aggression. But all he could think was that they had come, they had found him, he hadn't hidden well enough. They were coming to kill him, to finish off the outsider they'd tolerated long enough. Tremors shook him, and he waited for the attack to come.

But the brawny, coarse men from the tobacco fields didn't materialize. Instead, a scrawny lad crept around the corner of the dumpster, staring at him with wide hazel eyes. He couldn't have been much older than twenty, if that, dressed in shabby, ill-fitting clothes and a slouching, paperboy's hat, and the gauntness to his face suggested that he was well acquainted with hard times. The boy didn't look dangerous, but even so he growled again, baring his teeth and trying to appear fearsome. _Go 'way_ , he thought desperately, shivering with fear. _Don't want_.

Rather than being frightened off though, the boy's expression shifted to concern. “Mister?” he said, in the same hesitant voice that had woken him. “Are you okay?”

He tried snarling at the interloper, but his head gave a painful throb and what came out instead was a low, protracted moan. At the sound, the boy's eyes softened and he knelt down on the cobbles a few feet in front of him. “You don't sound so good. Maybe I can help...”

The boy moved forward, toward him, and the fear ignited again. “No!” he whimpered, shuffling back as far as he could go. “No, no, no, no...”

The boy halted at once. “Hey, easy, easy.” He held up his hands, palms outward. “It's okay. I won't hurt you. You don't have to be scared.”

The boy's face was frank and honest, but it was still all he could do to not try pressing further back behind the dumpster. The men from the tobacco field had proven that people could say one thing, and mean another. The one who'd made him drink the terrible stuff had said 'friend' an awful lot, but he'd never meant it. He'd learned his lesson; just because someone said they wouldn't hurt him didn't mean they'd keep their word.

Maybe the lad sensed this, because he hunkered down on his heels, keeping his hands where they could be seen, and contented himself with looking him over. “Geez, someone really banged you up bad, didn't they? Wish I still had that job with the ice man. I could get you some ice, we could wrap it up in your shirt or something, put it on those shiners.” A sudden, startling grin flashed at him. “It's cold as the dickens, but it takes down the swelling real fast too.”

He blinked, heart still racing. “Cold?”

The boy nodded. “Sure. Sometimes it numbs you up, too, makes it so you can't really feel a thing. That was nice...” Another grin glanced his way, this one a little sadder. “I messed up a lot there. I'm not so strong, and ice is heavy. Whenever I'd drop a block, the boss would smack me on the ear. Used to swell up like a cauliflower.”

Bosses smacking people who made mistakes was something he could understand, having had more than his fair share of this experience. “Hurts,” he agreed, and the boy's head bobbed up and down.

“Sure does.”

It was strange. The boy was sitting there, talking to him like he wasn't different. No one had ever treated him like that before; it felt bizarre, unreal. It felt _good_ , but since when had he ever been allowed good things? Confused, he shook his head, wincing as it pounded painfully again. “Hurts,” he repeated softly, and sighed.

Shuffling sounds caught his attention, and he startled but it was only the young fellow settling down more comfortably on the cobblestones, skinny, bare ankles protruding from the frayed hems of his pants. “Yeah, I wish I could get you some ice,” he went on, staring down at his hands, “but there's no helping it, I guess. I ain't got much of anything right now. My uncle's gotta be wondering what's taking me so long, catching up to him...”

The boy's gaze flickered his way, suddenly nervous, and he wondered why the fellow would say something that wasn't true like that. But it didn't make him warier of the lad; his instinct had finally weighed in, deciding that this boy wasn't likely to hurt him at all. In fact, he found that he _wanted_ to trust him, though the memory of fear and pain was still too fresh for him to easily give that trust. So when the boy looked back up at him with a crooked smile he didn't shy away, even if he didn't smile back like he found, to his surprise, that he rather wanted to.

“Hey, are you hungry?” the kid asked. He dug around in the pocket of his dingy coat, finally pulling out what smelled like part of a sandwich, wrapped in paper. He shrugged apologetically. “Left over from the last job I had. Was gonna save it, but you look like you need it more than me.”

He stared at the parcel extended toward him, baffled. The boss at the tobacco field used to tell him all the time that you didn't get fed if you didn't work, reinforcing the lesson by not allowing him in the meal line on the rare days he'd stay abed, ill. But here was food being offered without a lick of work done. It didn't seem right, and he wondered briefly if it was some kind of trick.

“Go on,” the boy urged. “It's okay. Please?”

He trembled a little, frightened once again, but his instinct urged him to believe what he was being told. Still shaking, he extended his uninjured arm tentatively and the boy put the wrapped sandwich in his hand, smiling as though he'd just been done a good turn. “There,” he said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “That'll make you feel better.”

“Better,” he echoed faintly, cradling the morsel against his chest and still too nervous to consider eating it. His wrenched arm throbbed, its dangling weight making the torn tendons and ligaments of his shoulder ache. More than anything, he wanted to lie down and rest again and he eyed the filthy rags he'd nested in with longing.

“Hey...” He looked up at the young fellow's wistful tone, saw the earnest expression on his face. “Would it be okay with you if I stayed with you today? I could help you out, if you wanted, maybe get you something to drink or clean up some of those cuts. I just...” Thin fingers twisted anxiously in his lap, and the boy bit his lower lip. “Sometimes I get scared, bein' all alone,” he confessed very quietly. Wide, nervous eyes lifted to meet his, and he saw the risk the boy was taking, telling him these things. It was something that even he, with his limited understanding, knew almost instinctively.

It was that admission of weakness that allowed him to nod slowly, still clutching the sandwich he'd been given, and the relief that flooded the other fellow's face was so palpable that he felt some of his own uneasiness ebb before it. “Thanks,” the boy told him, smiling wide enough to split his face. “Thanks a lot, Mister. Oh!” he exclaimed, snatching his hat off and worrying it between his hands. “I'm sorry. My name's Arai.”

The boy was looking at him expectantly, and with a weird jolt he suddenly realized that the lad was waiting for his introduction to be reciprocated. A little, involuntary whimper shuddered in his chest, but he managed to keep it contained. Ducking his head and feeling just a little bit ashamed, he managed to whisper with barely any voice at all, “Roy.”

But Arai just grinned back at him, looking pleased as could be. “It sure is swell to meet you, Roy.”

His own name, spoken by another person, made his heart flutter again. “'rai?” he said hesitantly, not sure if addressing the boy like this was permitted or not, but wanting to try it out nonetheless.

“Yeah, that's me!” That pure, happy smile washed over him again, and Roy decided right there that he liked that smile. He liked Arai, who was kind to even a strange person like himself, and in Roy's mind that made the young fellow the nicest person in the world. Fear was receding as every instinct he possessed roared its approval, and with a contented sigh he slumped back down onto his rags, feeling safe for the first time since he'd fled the tobacco fields.

“Stay?” he asked, unable to keep the plaintive note from his voice.

“You bet,” Arai assured him, and this time Roy didn't shy away when the boy shuffled closer to him. “You just rest, Roy. I'll watch out for you.”

And Roy closed his eyes, paper-wrapped sandwich tucked under his chin, for once not needing to recite his name as sleep took him. Arai was keeping watch over that, just like he was guarding his rest, and he could trust that the boy would make sure they were all secure.

Roy _knew_ this.


	2. Tezuka and Fuji

When he arrives home, the first thing Tezuka notices is not the bitter chill of the air, only a few degrees warmer than the biting cold outside. He's used to that already, the ache in his joints as he rises every morning, the steamy clouds his breath makes. What catches his eye is Fuji, swathed in his coat and draped by a blanket as he crouches by the fireplace and contemplates a small box of paper.

The winter has been deadly, and even with so many people out of work and unable to afford it, there still isn't enough coal to go around. They've taken to burning whatever they can find- old newspaper picked up on the street, bits of trash, clothing too far gone to repair- just to keep the tiny flat above freezing. It wears upon Tezuka, but he at least still has a job, and if it's loud and the hours are too long, at least it's a little warmer there. But Fuji has had nothing for months, spending his days searching the streets for work and his evenings plastering chinks in the ill-fitting windows of their home, trying not to succumb to the cold.

But Fuji rarely complains. He smiles, he perserveres, and over the past few weeks he's grown quiet and still, like the pond at the edge of town. As though he's already frozen through, and Tezuka only hopes to see him thaw again into the lighthearted, mischievous man who used to laugh so freely. It worries him, but what can he do? Fuji was never meant to be idle, to be without a job, without a life, and it's killing him more surely than even the factory job he'd lost months ago would have.

It's only as he approaches that Tezuka realizes what Fuji's holding. It's a recipe box, Fuji's most prized possession. Thousands of tiny cards, covered with neat handwriting- some Fuji's, some from hands unknown- like a dingy grimoire of peculiar magic, released from its binding. All of Fuji's kitchen knowledge, accumulated over years of experimentation and careful study, and worth more than Tezuka can estimate.

Thin, frail fingers stroke over the lid, but the bowed head never lifts. “They say it'll snow tonight,” Fuji finally says in a low monotone. “Even colder than last night, and the wind's supposed to pick up, too.”

Tezuka drops down to sit next to him. Shoulder to shoulder, both packed in as many clothes as they can wear, and he he can't feel Fuji's warmth, nor that of the meager fire guttering in the grate. He says nothing; there's little left to burn, and after working fifteen hours he has no energy to go back out and scavenge more from the alley. Still, it's not like they have a choice; _just a moment or two_ , he thinks, _and then I'll go..._

Fuji slips the box lid off, slender fingers dipping in among the cards and pulling one out at random. _Key Lime Pie_ , he reads from across its top before a sharp flick of the wrist sends it sailing onto the dying coals. Fat orange flames swell, the recipe card curls into blackened char as flames lap along it, and Tezuka is so shocked that he barely catches Fuji's arm as he plucks out another card.

“What are you doing?” he gasps.

“Feeding the fire.” The words come matter of factly from Fuji's mouth, but his face is pinched and worn. “These are all we have left.”

He hadn't known Fuji as a child, but his lover had told him tales before about when he was younger, spending time in his mother's shadow and learning to cook. Baking is Fuji's passion, a gift that Tezuka has marveled at in better days, when the young man produced the most wondrous creations from modest ingredients. That was back when Fuji still had a job, when they could still afford sugar and eggs, back before the market crashed and work dried up and they were reduced to burning furniture to make it through the winter months.

Watching Fuji toss his recipes on the fire is tantamount to seeing him destroy his past. His connection with his family, the future he'd always wished for. The bitter weather outdoors is brutal and combustible items harder to find in the alleys, but it is still far, far better than allowing the other man to burn his dreams.

“Tezuka,” Fuji murmurs, long lashes sweeping his cheeks as his downcast eyes blink slowly. “It's all they're good for.” Meek and listless, and Fuji was never meek unless he was also coy, never listless _ever_ , and how has Tezuka failed to notice the despair accumulating in those startling blue eyes before now? His heart constricts with pain as he shares his lover's wealth of despair.

He lets his fingers tighten on Fuji's arm, noticing how thin it is, how fragile his bones feel. Bundled up in a coat and three shirts, quilted underwear peeking out from the too-short hem of his pants, it's hard to see how much weight he's lost when he never had much to spare to begin with. “Don't burn them,” he whispers, feeling the arm in his hand beginning to shake. “You can't throw these away, Syuusuke. They're a part of you, they're-”

“They're _useless_ ,” Fuji interrupts harshly, jerking his arm back to clutch at the box in his lap. “Just bits of paper and words, we don't need them...”

“That's not true.” He wants to protest more, to explain about dreams and the future, but Fuji pulls away, standing shakily and looming over him with fury and hopelessness twisting his face.

“It _is_ the truth! Tezuka, we can't even afford flour! What can I do with a bunch of stupid cards demanding sugar and spices when we can't even keep the wind out? They're useless, they're only good for the fire, they're just as useless as _me_!” Gentle face fracturing with pain, Fuji darts forward, his movements ugly and ungainly as he upends the box, cards tipping into the fireplace in a snowstorm of white paper. Hungry crackles fill the room as the eager fire gobbles at the dry fuel and Tezuka gives a hoarse cry, snatching as many cards as he can out of the flames, singeing his fingers as he rescues square after square from their demise.

A few feet away, Fuji watches his efforts with his chest heaving, a trickle of tears running down his cheeks. The violent outburst has passed as quickly as it appeared, and all that's left is desolation and a terrified depression Tezuka wishes he'd seen sooner. “I can't take it, Kunimitsu,” he whispers, voice almost too thick to understand. “I'm never going to be able to use those again, and we're freezing and starving and nothing I do can change it. Just... let them burn. Let them go, let me...” He breaks off, face white and terrible and turns abruptly, staggering back toward the bed in the corner of the room. Throws himself down on the thin mattress and curls into a ball, coattail hanging out from beneath the blanket, choking on the sobs that wrack his slender body.

Tezuka can't think what to say. He lays the cards that remain out on the hearth, one by one, and makes sure that they no longer smolder. Brushes bits of char from the lines of instruction, the lists of ingredients that would cost more than everything they own combined. He tries to assemble them back in the box in what he thinks is the correct order, but many of the papers are curled and wrecked and he soon has to give up on any ideas of efficiency, instead packing them in as best he can. Putting the lid back on, he shuffles over to Fuji, still shaking with silent misery on the bed.

He reaches out, lifting an unresisting arm and tucking the box against Fuji's ribs before gently placing the other man's hand upon it. A hitching sigh shudders through Fuji's frame but he curls protectively around the box, fresh tears leaking through his lashes. Tezuka sits quietly on the edge of the mattress, hands wrapped around each other in his lap. Tonight they'll huddle together in the bed, clothing still on and coats draped over their blankets to hold in what little heat they produce; they'll shiver through the night and wake aching and miserable in the morning. But Fuji's future will still be intact.

Tezuka wishes he had the words to explain this to Fuji; a phrase, an argument that could explain that, one day, he may yet accomplish so much. But there's nothing, his words all beaten down from endless hours of tedious work, too little sleep, too little food. He only has his own starving hope, too pale to inspire, too weak to prop them both up.

Outside it has begun to snow. Snowflakes pile themselves up against the thin panes of glass and Tezuka thinks of frosted cakes, and gingerbread men iced with sugar.


	3. The Saddest City Lane

It wasn't the richest place he had seen, Arai thought as he hurried down the street, but this town was easily in the top five. The blight that swept the country seemed to have missed this place altogether, leaving its citizens untouched by the privation elsewhere. Men strode confidently in expensive suits, women windowshopped wearing dresses that floated like gauze around their ankles, even the simplest movement making then appear to be dancing. And there were more cars than he had _ever_ seen; not just regular old cars, but fine cars, shiny black things that wended through the streets like living things, big jungle cats on the prowl.

In a far off, secret part of his heart, Arai hoped that maybe he'd get to wash one someday, to wax and buff it 'til it shone like the sun, all brilliant chrome and flawless paint. At the same time he wasn't sure he'd be brave enough to actually touch one, even if some gentleman offered him the job. It had been beaten into his head over and again that he was dust and grime all through, and by now he pretty much believed it. And if he was so soiled, all the dirt would just adhere to the beautiful machine, and that he couldn't bear.

Reluctantly, he tore his mind from the forbidden allure of the cars, and focused instead on the sidewalk under his feet. There wasn't much this town wanted for, and most of the households had servants already, handling the hard or messy work he and Roy usually relied on to survive. He'd been lucky, chancing on that fellow outside the laundry; a servant at one of the bigger households, already overburdened with lists of chores. The harried man had been happy to pass on some of the more onerous duties to Arai and Roy, promising a meal to them both in exchange. It was a full day's work, the sort of thing that would generally pay with a roof over their head for the night as well as the food elsewhere, but in a town like this you couldn't be too picky.

Unfortunately, in a town like this Roy tended to stand out like a raven on fresh snow. Too awkward, too strange... a young lad like Arai with a ready smile and pleasant nature was one thing. But a man with fearful, exotic eyes who could barely speak, who shied away from people like some wild animal- that was something else altogether. People didn't like different, and folks this well off didn't need his strong back enough to put up with his odd nature.

They'd learned this lesson before.

So he'd left Roy in the alley behind the town library, sitting below a window and listening to a group of ladies who must've been part of some literary club. They were reading poetry, one of Roy's very favorite things. He could sit for hours, mesmerized by the lilt and the cadence, head cocked and sometimes nodding along with the rhythm of the words. There wasn't much doubt that Roy understood it about as well as Arai understood the workings of those fancy black cars, but it made him happy, and that was good enough for Arai.

He'd told him to wait, and Roy was obedient to a fault, especially when presented with something as fascinating as poetry, but Arai had hurried through his errands nonetheless. If someone were to stumble across the other man, think that he was lurking or troublesome, the most they could hope for was that he'd be run off. They'd learned this lesson too, and neither one of them wanted to repeat the frightening times spent searching for one another again, when the whole town seemed set against them. So Roy was always in the back of his mind as he'd plowed through the chores- enough to tire two men, let alone one youngster like himself- as well as running from one end of town to the other carrying the serving man's correspondence to a young woman working in the laundry, and hers back to him. The servant to a servant; his were the hardest and dirtiest tasks at hand, and they never seemed to end.

But it would be worth it, if he and Roy could get one decent meal in them. Arai already knew they couldn't stay here, little more than tramps in a town that didn't need them and certainly didn't understand them. They'd pushed their luck far enough; the other wealthy towns they'd come to had run them out much sooner, and with no small amount of force either. Some good food in their bellies that hadn't come from trashcans or gleaning, and they could clear out on their own, no hard feelings. Just the same regret that followed them from every place they'd left, still homeless, and still unwanted.

Thankfully, Roy was right where Arai had left him when he came 'round the corner. Huddled beneath the window ledge, knees drawn up to his chest and his face turned up to where a young woman's words rose above the murmur of other voice; slow, somber, a few lines drifting out into the alley to meet them.

_“...I have outwalked the furthest city light.  
I have looked down the saddest city lane...”_

“Listen,” sighed Roy, eyes half-closed in blissful enjoyment. “Arai? Listen?”

He'd never much cared for poetry, at least not the way Roy did. Some of it was nice, and some of it was funny, but he figured he probably understood it about as well as the other man did when all was said and done. Everything was always so muddled up in fancy words; life was confusing enough without making it deliberately so. Straight, honest speech was what he appreciated, as it was rare enough.

But Arai smiled at his friend with patient tolerance. “Nice to have something new to hear, huh, buddy? But we don't have time to listen, not if we're gonna eat. It's getting dark soon, so we gotta get a move on.”

Roy whined softly, but pushed himself to his feet. They both knew better than to pass up a meal. Still, the other man glanced back at the window as they left, his keen ears no doubt straining to pick out every last line. Once they'd turned back onto the street, trotting along and trying to look purposeful, Roy stopped craning his neck and instead sighed softly. “Saddest city lane,” he repeated, almost mournfully. “Been one 'quainted with the night.”

By the time they reached the house where Arai's provisional employer worked, night was already starting to fall. Leaving Roy at the bottom of the steps, Arai crept up the back porch and tapped quietly on the kitchen door, just as he'd been told. When there was no response he knocked again, a little louder, but long moments passed with nothing but the sound of crickets singing the stars down.

“Stopped the sound of feet. Far away... 'nterrupted cry,” Roy mumbled to himself.

Arai stared at the closed door in silent dismay. He'd worked so hard, and he'd been promised. But just as despair was raising its head, he heard footsteps approaching, and his heart leapt with hope. They would eat tonight, then find a hedge to bed down under, and tomorrow...

The door swung open. The serving man stood there, hands on his hips and looking down on them with the light from the kitchen streaming past him, warm gold and smelling like heaven. Arai offered up his most hopeful grin, wringing his cap between his hands as he opened his mouth to speak.

“What do _you_ want?” the man snapped coldly, cutting him off. He stared down his nose at the two of them with obvious disdain.

Arai drew back as though slapped, absolutely stunned by the unexpected anger. “I...” he stammered. “All the... all the work I did... you said...” He stopped, swallowed hard. “You said we could have some food.”

An ugly glint in his eyes, the man smiled cruelly. “I said no such thing.”

“Is there a problem, Charles?” A rich, cultured voice raised from the other room; the master of the house inquiring into the disruption to his household. The duplicitous servant cast Arai a quelling glance before turning back to the interior of the house, his manner immediately fawning and oily.

“Nothing to be concerned with, sir. Only a couple of begging vagabonds, but I'll send them on their way.” Whipping around, he shot Arai a poisonous glare. “Get outta here before I call the cops on you two! Stupid, dirty...” He half-leaned out the door, blocky yellow teeth bared in menace, and Arai nearly fell off the steps in his haste to get away. Coarse laughter chased after him, then the light abruptly cut out as the door slammed shut.

Helpless tears welled in Arai's eyes, as he realized what had happened. He'd been duped. The serving man had never intended to feed them; he'd played on Arai's trust and used him instead. Beside him, Roy made an uneasy, questioning sound in his throat, and nudged gently at his arm.

“Arai? Okay?” he asked in a soft voice.

No, he really wasn't, but he couldn't break down now. Maybe he wanted to howl with frustration, or curse himself for being so stupid and trusting, but there was still Roy to think about. Scrubbing an arm across his face, he reined in the sobs that wanted to burst from him and took a deep breath. “Yeah, buddy. I'm okay. Just... kinda sad.”

Roy- whose heart had to be about as rich as this whole stupid town- chuffed and rubbed his head against Arai's jaw in what Arai imagined was a consoling manner. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Sorry, 'rai.”

He let himself bury his face in Roy's hair for only a moment before straightening. “Not your fault, buddy. Don't apologize, I screwed up today, not you. C'mon- maybe we can still find something to eat before we clear out. I heard a whistle earlier-” _while I was working for **nothing**_ , “-so maybe we can hop a train later on, get out of this dumb town. Alright?”

“Alright.” Roy nodded, as willing as ever to follow his lead. That unwavering trust made Arai want to curl up and cry for letting him down.

But instead he lifted his chin and set off, the other man following faithfully at his heels. He'd just have to try harder next time, do better, and ignore the horrible weight of today's failure that stacked up with all his other burdens. Years of loneliness and abuse, homelessness and hunger. Depression trailed him all the time, but he couldn't afford to let it catch him yet.

“...one 'quainted with the night,” Roy recited solemnly as they strode down the quiet street. “Walked out in rain. Back in rain.”

In the distance, a train whistle cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it's worth, the poem that was butchered in here was Robert Frost's [Acquainted With the Night](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47548/acquainted-with-the-night), which seemed to suit Arai and Roy very well indeed, as well as being period-appropriate (being published in 1928).


	4. The Wish

He's passed this shop a thousand times, Tezuka thinks as he squints against the chilling wind, but he's never really seen it before. Not like this. Not with the elegant gate, or the oriental architecture, or the sliding doors. Not with that odd fellow, Watanuki, standing on the porch of the curio shop with this arms crossed, giving him the most peculiar look.

“Well?” Watanuki finally prompts, cocking his head and continuing to stare at him. “Would you like to come in?”

Tezuka frowns; it's not polite, but he can't help himself. He's heard the rumors, but it's all ridiculous. Granting wishes... He's seen sideshow mystics and gypsies and other itinerant charlatans, and doesn't doubt that this is another in that line. His mouth opens to decline the invitation, but what inexplicably comes out is, “Thank you.”

He blinks, surprised with himself, but Watanuki gives him a warm smile and nods. “Please join Miss Yuuko,” he says, indicating the door. “I'll make some tea and snacks.”

There's nothing he can do at this point but pass through those gates and up to the door. Watanuki smiles again, and it's more than a little strange to see him pleasant and human and not ranting or silently sullen. The gawky young man slides the door aside and bows him in and he reluctantly enters the curio shop, more than a little perplexed as to why he has let himself be talked into this. He's a realist, not at all prone to flights of fancy or supposition, but when his foot passes across the threshold Tezuka could swear he feels it through every bone.

Miss Yuuko herself is no less shocking. As tall as he is, elegant as an orchid and dressed in glistening black silk adorned with flights of pale pink swallows, and smoking from a long, silver pipe. She doesn't rise from the couch she reclines upon as he enters the room, but inclines her head languidly in his direction. “Welcome to my shop,” she says, a warm purr in her voice. “Please, sit down.”

He does so, hesitantly, uncomfortable in the rich yet austere surroundings; teak and ebony, sandalwood polished to a high finish. His rough scarf itches around his neck but Tezuka ignores it, trying not appear ill at ease. He hasn't seen a house half so fine in his entire life, and compared to the drafty, barren apartment he shares with Fuji... well, it just doesn't compare. It so enormously doesn't compare that he may as well be on the moon as in such a place.

But he's collected enough to remember his manners, rational enough that smalltalk is still possible. Not that Miss Yuuko seems one for such a convention. She lets him ramble, listening with a polite smile on her face, then out of the blue comments, “The winter has been especially cold, hasn't it?”

The weather is also acceptable conversation between strangers. However, her ability to segue topics is clearly lacking. “Coldest I can recall,” he replies and she nods understandingly.

“How has your friend been doing?”

The question surprises him, and for a moment he fumbles for words. Miss Yuuko just watches him with sly, dark eyes, and he reminds himself _this is how fortune tellers work. Trick you into giving away hints and details about your life, enough that they know what to ask. It's all a sham, a joke._

But at the same time, he can't help but think of Fuji, as he left him that morning. Depression was taking its toll; wrapped in multiple layers of worn clothes, and tucked under the thin blanket of their bed, Fuji had barely stirred when Tezuka said he was leaving. His blue eyes were vacant, staring at the wall as though seeing something far past it. He looked like a child, or a doll, his baggy, fraying clothes too large for a frame that was wasted with hunger. The last time Tezuka had seen him naked, his bones had appeared bird-frail beneath translucent skin, shoulderblades standing out like stunted wings and mirrored below by the rising jut of his hipbones, while between them his ribs rose like stairsteps.

But he isn't about to tell a complete stranger these kinds of things, and instead lets his face slip back to blank calm. “He's fine, thank you.”

She gives him a commiserating smile, slow and certain, then abruptly shrugs with complete nonchalance. “Having a friend like yours is nothing to be embarrassed about,” she says, her voice gone from coolly polite to teasing, and a short laugh trills from her. “Even Watanuki has a special friend. You should introduce our guest to Doumeki, don't you think?”

The last sentence is directed off to the side, and Watanuki himself comes in, bearing a tray of hors d'oeuvres and bristling to the point of appearing staticky. “ _That Doumeki_ is nothing special!” he growls, somehow managing to set the tray down gently while otherwise flushing bright red and flailing his aggravation at the woman. “And I wouldn't bother anyone with an introduction to that rude lout.” The sight actually reassures Tezuka; the serene Watanuki he'd met on the porch was so different from the spastic young man he'd known that he'd seemed like another person altogether. This, at least, is familiar.

And perhaps that is the point; Tezuka catches Yuuko's satisfied little smirk as she meets his eyes, and quickly takes a sip of the tea Watanuki's just brought them. He doesn't want to feel comfortable here, he's not even sure why he's here at all. But he's only too happy to oblige when the shop's mistress insists that he try the tiny tarts that have been prepared for them, his empty, neglected stomach rumbling with delight at the treat. They are surprisingly delicious; light pastry cooked to flaky perfection, the fruit confection within still warm from the oven. Fuji used to make similar things, and Tezuka frowns over his second bite, knowing full well that Watanuki couldn't have just whipped these up at his arrival.

“I hope I didn't disturb you,” he finally says, indicating the tray. “You seem as though you were expecting company.”

Something seems to pass over Miss Yuuko's face, something altogether too canny for Tezuka's tastes. “We were,” she says simply, sitting up straight. “And now you're here.”

Was she implying...? “I didn't have any intentions of coming here today,” Tezuka begins, and she nods as though she understands completely.

“And yet here you are. As you wanted to be.”

He sets his teacup down, wondering now if Miss Yuuko isn't eccentric so much as insane. “I've never had any desire to come to your shop before,” he explains, hoping that he's doing so politely enough so as not to cause offense. “The rumors I've heard... forgive me if I say that I don't quite believe them.”

Behind him, Watanuki scoffs softly, but silences at the quelling look Yuuko shoots him. “You didn't intend to come here,” she reiterates, fixing her attention wholly on Tezuka once more, “and you don't believe in my trade, and yet-” The smile on her face is far too knowing. “- here you sit. Call it hitsuzen, or destiny, or fate, you are here because you have a wish. You could not be here, otherwise.”

“A shop that grants wishes.” He says it flatly, unimpressed. “I'm surprised you don't have people lined up down the block, if that's the case.”

Yuuko looks pensive. “Most people only want things frivolously. They call it wishing, but it's more of a daydream, a what-if. The people who come to see me are different. They need things, desire them deeply enough to seek me out and those wishes, I grant, so long as the price is met.”

“Then I'm afraid I don't belong here,” Tezuka tells her quietly. “I don't have a wish, and even if I did, I don't have any money. What little I have is all that's keeping a roof over my head, and a little food on the table.” Truth be told, it's barely doing that; he's behind on their rent payment, and they haven't had a real meal in days. And even if he had enough to spare, he wouldn't spend it here. If you worked hard, your wishes came true; if they didn't, you worked harder until they did. He doesn't believe in things like magic. He can't afford to.

“Money doesn't buy wishes.” Miss Yuuko raises an admonishing finger at him. “Currency never buys anything of real importance.”

“I don't have a wish,” he insists.

Yuuko smiles that damnably smug smile of hers. Smoke from her pipe twisting about her head like a snake, she says, “You can see my shop. You can pass through its door. If you didn't have a wish, that would be impossible.”

He's nearly discomfited enough to leave, but she gestures again at the snack tray. “Please, have some more,” she urges, and his hunger is enough to overrule his sense. The second tart is as good as the first, and again he thinks of Fuji's talent in the kitchen, his love of baking. And he thinks of the storm of recipe cards, fluttering into the fire like brittle little snowflakes, the pain in his hands as he swept them to safety.

“My friend used to bake like this,” he remarks to no one in particular, lost in his thoughts and not really even aware that he's speaking aloud.

Watanuki makes an indignant sound, but Yuuko's face takes on that sober look again. “Did he?” she murmurs.

Memory overtakes him, of Fuji baking, Fuji smiling, Fuji _happy_... Swallowing hard against the pain that rises, Tezuka shakes his head. “He loved it. More than anything else.”

Yuuko says nothing more, only sips her tea and watches him with imperturbable eyes.

Enjoying the treats Watanuki has provided suddenly feels like a betrayal. Pushing his plate away, Tezuka finds himself blurting, “I want him to have that again. That joy. It's beyond my means, but I'd do _anything_...” Realization of what he's saying clamps his jaw shut, furious, but the damage is done. The shopkeeper is nodding her head as though it's the most natural thing, and even Watanuki looks at him with understanding on his face, and Tezuka hates them for tricking this out of him, making him give up his secret which is the only thing he has any longer.

“I have to go,” he says abruptly, pushing himself to his feet and waiting for the inevitable calls at his back, urging him to stop, but they don't come. Only the icy bite of the wind hitting his face as he rushes through the door, sliding through the slush lining the sidewalk as he finally makes it to the street. He cannot say he expects pursuit, but when Tezuka glances behind him he sees only the graceful line of the gates, the odd carved moons topping them, and the hurt that goes through him is altogether unexpected.


End file.
